The idea of doing this every day is tripping me out. I don’t feel like committing to a thing. Not really sure what the big deal is. It’s not like I’m getting married. Right? You can’t believe two scepters dancing on the edge of a twilight firestorm, anyway. Love.

In the end we are all dressage horses. Except for dressage horses. They’re something rarefied by metaphor. Shot, glue, diseased, old age. In the end we are all factory goods on the way to the furnace. This is why cremation feels most appropriate to me — I was worthless in life. Do not confer worth upon my husk in death.

Whoever you are: I want you to embarrass me in public. I want you to take me home and put me in positions that make me feel like half a human being, and I want you to make me cry. I want you to slap me in the face and tell me I’m a shit.

But I’m going to need to flip the script. Because true affection didn’t wait for Caliban. You know? Frankenstein’s son — not his monster, his son — couldn’t count on his father to teach him the weirding ways of loving. And sure, we are business casual. Monstrousness is not reduced as an internal quantity. Think of how many major crimes are committed with a smile. Caliban beats his chest and gives wings to his own violence. Prospero games the island, bends it to his will.

Give it some centuries. We’ll all be Calibans in Prospero skins, with Prospero affectations. We will spend decades trying to reconcile the two. If we can’t, we’ll go mad.